Wardom

The soldiers slept on the ground

With their guns lying by their side

Alas! Their sleeps were but not of a moment


Undead soldiers dragged immobile bodies

Dragging and piling

Dragging and piling

Formed a chuck of pile



This is wardom

From where no one can retreat

This is kill or get killed

This is carnival



Amidst the pile shone a parchment from a comrade-dead-in-arms

An unproposed letter to his love

A sober soldier unfolded it

And read with melancholy in his voice:



“How much do I love you;

Yet never can I tell;

But would I now?

Nay. My life is coming to an untimely end.”